


Quatrefoil

by kmo



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: BDSM, Backstory, Character Study, Femdom, Multi, The Night Court
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:23:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Melisande visited the Night Court.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quatrefoil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meneldur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meneldur/gifts).



_Gentian_

 

At a quarter to midnight on her sixteenth natality, Melisande Shahrizai swept her long silk skirts over the threshold of Gentian House and demanded the services of its most accomplished adept.

A servant led her down a cool, darkened corridor until they came to a room comfortably appointed with curtains and coverings of indigo and violet. A man with waist-length hair almost as luxurious as her own waited inside. “It is my pleasure to serve you, Lady Shahrizai. I am Jean-David nó Gentian.” He clasped her hands in his and bowed.

Melisande saw one eye was light blue and other deep brown and frowned, thinking the Dowayne had dared to present her with a flawed adept. “Ah, you notice, my lady. Yes, in many houses of the Night Court such would be considered an imperfection. But we in Gentian House believe it to be a great blessing, a sign that one eye is trained on the present, while another on the future that is yet to be. It is said Blessed Elua himself looked so, as he was the perfect union of both earth and heaven,” he told her in a poetic tone. “But if my lady is displeased…”

Melisande shook her head dismissively. “As long as you are Gentian’s finest, I care naught for your mismatched eyes.”

The adept’s shirt was open to the waist, revealing a slim and muscular build. He took Melisande’s hand and brought it to his generous mouth, kissing the inside of her wrist, quickening her desire. He gazed at her through hazel lashes and demurred, “House Gentian is an…unusual…choice for a young noblewoman’s first visit to the Night Court. Especially one of House Shahrizai.”

One of her less patient cousins might have struck him across his pretty face for his presumption. Instead, Melisande simply laughed. “I would hate to be so predictable. I have all my life to enjoy the pleasures of Valerian House, I need not start tonight.” It was the same explanation she would give her cousins on the morrow when they would inevitably wish to know why she had dashed their plans, slipping away unnoticed from her own coming-of-age fête.

Jean-David nó Gentian drew her into his arms and kissed her slowly and thoroughly, firm hands sliding up her waist, melding every inch of her to his lithe body. She had been kissed before, no doubt, but never with such calculated artistry. Perhaps some things were best left to the professionals. The adept whispered low in her ear, “Tonight I will teach you that not all Naamah’s pleasures need be sharp in order to be sweet, scion of Kushiel.” He lit a brazier, filling the chamber with soft light, and a sweet, heavy aroma Melisande did not recognize.

Ambition had led her here, but skepticism remained. “Can you truly read the future in the act of love?” she had to ask.

Jean-David dipped his fingers in oil and solemnly anointed her pulse points, her breast-bone, eyelids and finally the tender spot squarely in the middle of her forehead. He kissed each one in turn. It went to her head, and she could feel something loosening, smoothing the edges of her razor-sharp desire. “The heart and soul have knowledge the waking mind knows not. Come, my lady, I will show you.”

That first night was slow, languid, sensual, glorious. No spot on her body went unkissed or uncaressed. He performed the _languissement_ as a worshipper before an idol, making her toes curl in unrivaled bliss. Time itself twisted and dilated between them as they gave themselves over to passion. Waves of pleasure radiated out of her body and called back from some unknown distant shore.

He filled her and it was sharp and sweet at once. Melisande found his strokes firm but too careful. Kushiel’s fire blazed within her and it was all she could do to refrain from digging her nails into his soft white shoulders. Melisande wondered then if it would always be this way, if she would ever find another who would willingly take all the pain and pleasure she had to bestow. She settled for flipping him over and riding him astride, as surely as her favorite Kusheline stallion. And she was certain that such things were usually not done by the patrons of Gentian House, but her adept did not seem to protest.

After they had both reached their pleasure, she dreamed.

Melisande glided through the marbled hallways of the palace in the City of Elua. She was driven by a sense of urgency and knew that to stop or be distracted would be a fatal error. She passed first a treasure chamber full of gold and jewels, a veritable dragon’s horde, but kept moving. Next, a raucous salon of courtiers who sang her praises and called her name. That chamber she ignored as well. Behind the third and final door, a beautiful black-haired, blue-eyed child- the very mirror of herself- tugged at her silk skirts and called out, “Mother.” At this she nearly did pause. Why, she could not say. It was with sorrow Melisande turned away and pressed onward.

Finally, she arrived at the deserted throne room. With triumph, she approached the throne that was hers at last. She took the jeweled crown in her hands and felt a surge of ecstasy sweeter than any lover could ever bring her. Just as she was about to place the crown upon her head, an arrow whipped through the darkness, piercing her heart to its core. Her own dark red blood ran down the marble steps as the crown fell from her trembling, dying hands…

She awoke in a sweat and turned away from her bedmate, trying to cover her alarm. Jean-David brought her a glass of cool water and stroked her hair, attempting to soothe away her terror.

She brushed aside his hands. “Everything you saw tonight is in the strictest confidence, is it not?” she asked sharply.

“Yes, my lady. To tell another of a patron’s secret dreamings would dishonor my vow to Naamah,” he said. Jean-David's face then took on a grave and serious look. “If I may offer you some advice, Lady Shahrizai. This dream is a warning. Leave off this present course. Many splendid things will be laid at your feet- riches, fame, love. Do not sacrifice them all for power. It will not end well for you.”

Melisande drew breath and felt her senses sharpen. Kushiel’s fire burned away Gentian’s dreamy haze, and all was clear. “I agree the dream is a warning, Jean-David nó Gentian. But there is another interpretation you have not considered. Every arrow has an archer. It will not end well for me…unless I subdue the one who wields this dart.”

 

_Balm_

The night after she buried her second husband, Melisande arranged an assignation with Lierre nó Balm upon the recommendation of several members of the court. It was against the advice of her Shahrizai kin, who assured her that mourning was best done within the family’s private dungeon in Valerian House. Melisande suspected they spoke the truth; still, she was curious to see if the adepts of Balm lived up to their soothing reputations.

After an attendant had drawn her a luxurious scented bath, Lierre came and knelt _abeyante_ beside the tub. The girl could not have been older than Melisande herself, yet her transparent gown revealed a _marque_ nearly three-quarters done. “Do I please you, my lady of Shahrizai?” the adept asked in a husky voice.

Golden hair the color of ripening wheat spilled over her abundant breasts, somewhat at odds with her deep, dark eyes. Yes, this one pleased her very much. She caressed the girl’s dimpled cheek with her hand. “I can only hope you are as soothing as you are beautiful, Lierre.”

The adept assisted her as she rose from the bath and enveloped her in a soft, plush robe. She led her to a set of cushions by the fire. For a moment they sat there, Lierre massaging her hand in soft gentle strokes with a verbena-scented lotion. Finally the adept said, “I understand your ladyship has recently been widowed. Is it your husband’s passing that you grieve?”

“Truthfully, I do not think so.” Her husband clutching his heart and falling from his horse during a hunt was quite unexpected. It set back many of her well-laid plans. Though she found his company rather tedious and was not altogether sorry to be rid of him, he had been one of her father’s closest friends.

“Then who?” the adept pressed.

Melisande closed her eyes. “My father, I think.”  Casimar Shahrizai had been cold in his grave for nearly three years. She had mourned him well enough when he passed, or so she thought. But the truth was he had been lost to her for years. First with her mother’s death and the little brother that never came, then with his unholy obsession with Victoire Maignard and her family. He rarely seemed to notice his daughter, except for those rare occasions, half in his cups, when he would gather her close and whisper ambitious dreams in her ear.

“Were you close?”

She shrugged. “Not especially.”

The adept’s dark eyes deepened. One could drown in their dark pools if she wasn’t careful. “And your mother?”

“She died when I was a child,” Melisande offered, the same practiced reply she had been giving for years.

Lierre paused in her ministrations and looked up at her with sorrowful, lambent eyes. “I am sorry. You must miss her very much.”

“One cannot miss what one does not remember.”

“You don’t recall her at all?” the adept asked, seemingly curious.

Melisande frowned the barest little. “Not very well.” She reached for Lierre, caressing the girl’s pink cheeks with the back of her hand. “Her eyes were dark like yours. The color the poets call _bistre_.”

Lierre drew Melisande’s hand to her mouth, kissing her palms tenderly. Melisande felt desire glow within her, as soft and warm as candlelight. She let her hand wander across Lierre’s broad shoulders and well-muscled forearms. The girl met her gaze unflinchingly. There was something sure and steady about Lierre nó Balm, a firmness and a gravity akin to the earth itself. It was certainly a contrast from the trembling beauty of the courtesans of Valerian House or the preening manner common to many of Naamah’s servants. 

“It must be lonely,” Lierre said, breaking the tense silence.

Melisande arched a perfect brow. “I assure you, my dear adept, I do not lack for company. I could take a different lover every night from now until the Longest Night and still never bed the same person twice.”

Lierre was seemingly undeterred. “You’ve lost your parents and two husbands. Don’t you feel lonely?”

“I was not aware an evening at Balm House so closely resembled an inquisition. Had I known, I would certainly have taken my custom elsewhere.”

“I ask questions, my lady, to learn what ails you, to help you release your grief. Sorrow left untreated will turn poisonous. It must be lanced, like a wound.” Lierre paused thoughtfully for a moment, then added, “Sometimes healing requires pain. I would have thought one of Kushiel’s lineage would understand that.”

“And how many of Kushiel’s scions have you healed in Naamah’s service, Lierre nó Balm?” Melisande asked in a husky purr.

“None,” Lierre demurred, blushing ever-so-slightly. 

Melisande placed one finger delicately underneath the girl’s fair chin and tilted her mouth upward, capturing Lierre’s coral lips in a slow, possessive kiss. “Then I shall have the pleasure of being your first.”

“As you wish, Lady Shahrizai.” Lierre gracefully shrugged off her thin gown, revealing a wealth of creamy curves. She spread Melisande’s robe open and straddled her open lap, her large firm breasts brushing against Melisande’s own. Melisande nearly gasped aloud to feel Lierre’s petal-soft skin meet hers, like silk gliding over satin. It had been too long since she had experienced that wonderful sensation that comes only with being with another woman. Such a shame that the corridors of power were so often occupied by men, Melisande thought with regret.

Lierre covered her entire body warmly with her own. Each of the Thirteen Houses practiced Naamah’s arts in their own custom. Melisande found the Balm adept’s kisses wholesome and hearty, like one might expect from a lusty dairy maid. Lierre’s lips were both thorough and tender as she bent to take Melisande’s nipple within her teeth, sucking until her own pleasure bordered on pain. Melisande was surprised that the girl had aroused her own passions so quickly, so far removed from her usual preferences. Feeling a surge of lust within her, she pressed her hands against Lierre’s shoulders, attempting to push her back against the cushions, but Lierre held fast and would not budge.

Answering Melisande’s unasked question, she said, “This is not Valerian House, my lady. Your pleasure must come first tonight. I insist.”

There is a vulnerability in receiving pleasure, as much if not more than there is in giving it, this Melisande well-understood. She decided to magnanimously allow Lierre to set the order of the evening’s events. Melisande drew open the rest of her robe, and reclined against the soft green velvet cushions, spreading her legs wide invitingly.

Lierre kissed the planes of her stomach and the tips of her thighs with a calculated slowness. Melisande reveled in it, feeling her desire rise as Lierre inched closer to her swollen sex. The adept took her time with the _languissement_ like a patient gardener, gently coaxing Melisande’s passion into full bloom. Melisande found herself relaxing into the practiced, insistent caresses of Lierre’s lips and tongue. It could have been minutes or hours, but all too soon she found her passion nearing its peak, past the point of no return. She cried aloud, grasping Lierre’s thick blonde hair roughly, bucking against her in passionate release.

For a moment after reaching her pleasure, Melisande felt almost weightless, only to come crashing earth a moment later. In the aftermath of passion, a great sorrow rose up within her, choking her heart. And underneath it all, a vast emptiness, empire-wide. Even if she succeeded, there would be no one there to see. Plenty would know of her triumph, but where was one who would truly share in it? Melisande sat up abruptly, finding herself overcome by an aching sadness that even her iron will could not strangle into submission.

Lierre nó Balm’s firm, gentle arms encircled her from behind. She embraced her, and there was a sincerity there, a kind of love, too palpable to ignore. “There is no shame in tears, my lady. For tears cleanse the wounds of the heart and bring healing.”

Melisande tried to pull away, but Lierre’s arms held her. She found herself on the verge of tears for no apparent reason at all, which was passing strange as she could not remember the last time she had cried in a way that was not calculated. Tears glistened in her eyes, yet there was something, some kind of diamond-like hardness within her that kept her from letting them fall. “I can’t…I just can’t,” she told the adept.

Lierre released her hold on her. Her dark eyes filled with disappointment. “Then you shall never be healed.”  

A spark of anger kindled within Melisande and she bit back an angry retort, fought down the impulse to ask the Dowayne of Balm House for her money back. But Melisande knew better to anger one of Naamah’s servants. Balm House would have its fee and Lierre a not ungenerous patron gift; she had no desire for the girl to call down Naamah’s Curse upon her. Melisande rose and painstakingly replaced her undergarments and gown in deliberate and painful silence. When she had finished, she placed a small, but heavy pouch of coins in Lierre nó Balm’s hands.

Melisande favored the adept with her most withering glance, and said in a voice as sharp as a _flechette’s_ edge, “I should have gone to Valerian House.”

 

 _Eglantine_  

“Would you care for a glass of punch, my lady?” asked a young girl dressed in the orchid and gold livery of Eglantine House. Though the her words were deferential, Melisande detected a hint of rebellion in the way the young adept tossed her copper curls over her shoulder and a certain sullenness that puckered at the corners of her rose-pink lips. The girl was old enough to serve at Eglantine’s soirees, yet a few years short of entering Naamah’s service. Though she bore her tray with grace, the girl’s ill-disguised discomfort was more amusing to Melisande than any of the entertainments the artists’ house had presented her with so far this evening.

Melisande accepted a crystal flute of some bubbling chartreuse concoction with deliberate coolness. “What is your ambition, young adept?”

The girl’s green gaze sharpened. “Why do you assume I have ambition?”

“I have known many of Naamah’s servants in my time, and they all have some ambition or another, the artists of House Eglantine most of all,” Melisande replied matter-of-factly. “So, I ask again, what is your ambition?”

Anger and embarrassment flickered in the girl’s eyes. This one clearly had no talent for subterfuge, every emotion was written across her freckled face, clear as the pages in a picture book. “Couturier, my lady,” she said through gritted teeth.

“How novel.” Melisande was almost very nearly surprised. Most Eglantine adepts aimed to be performers or poets, drawn as they were to the drama of the stage and its promise of notoriety and easy fame. There were artists and musicians to be sure, but she had never heard of a couturier entering Naamah’s service. “And would you design for me, my dear?”

“It would depend if you could meet my fee, my lady,” the girl said flatly.

A willowy young adept hovering at the edge of the conversation turned to the red-headed girl aghast. “Favrielle! Do you know who this is?”

Melisande smiled her most patient, deadly smile. “A fine question. Do you know who I am?”

“You’re Melisande Shahrizai. Prince Baudoin’s consort. The woman they call the Star of the Evening.” The girl named Favrielle held her composure, but the slightest tremor of the glasses on their silver tray betrayed her.

“So you must know, Favrielle nó Eglantine, that I have wealth enough to buy the services of every adept in this room ten times over should I wish it. More than enough, I think, to engage an inexperienced novice, no matter how talented. What would you design for me, I wonder, were I to contract your services?” Melisande mused. 

The young blonde girl that was Favrielle's companion tried to tug at her sleeve, but Favrielle shooed her away with a haughty, sour look. Favrielle squinted and Melisande felt her gaze travel along the length of her body with surgical precision. The girl closed her eyes and seemed to go into an almost rapturous, trance-like state. The fingers of her free hand moved erratically, and Melisande could tell they itched for a charcoal pencil and a pad of fresh, creamy paper. For all that opposites often attract, like calls to like, and genius calls to genius. Melisande sensed there was raw talent here and her instincts were razor-wire sharp and almost never wrong. Raw talent that could be shaped and molded in the hands of the proper patron. For Melisande knew it would not simply be enough to have the army dancing to her tune for the plan she had in mind- she would need hearts as well as minds. And for that one needed art, not simply ambition.

Favrielle nó Eglantine’s bright eyes snapped open. “I would play upon your epithet, my lady, the name of the Evening Star. The gods have gifted you with perhaps more than your fair share of natural beauty, and to embellish upon it further seems like gilding the lily. But even the most beautiful diamond must have a proper setting, don’t you agree?”

“I do. You have piqued my curiosity, Favrielle. Please continue.”

The girl set down her tray and began to walk around Melisande’s body, gesturing widely as she talked. “Now another might simply place you in an immaculately tailored gown of sapphire silk and be done with it. That would be the safest choice of course. But I imagine a gown of draped chiffon, dyed white at the bust, deepening to cornflower, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, and onyx at the hem. The underskirt would be burgundy, giving just a surprising pop of color every time you’d walk by. Since money is no object for you, I’d sew tiny diamond chips all over the bodice. You’d be a walking picture of the night sky in all its glory,” Favrielle finished breathlessly.

“Very impressive.” Melisande said.

“Thank you,” Favrielle conceded, though her tone said “ _I know_.”

“Such a pity you are a summer or so shy of Naamah’s service, for I am intrigued by this design of yours. Tell me, do you perform the _languissement_ with as much imagination as you design gowns?” Melisande asked, prodding for a potential weakness.

“I make a point to excel at everything I do, Lady Shahrizai. You are correct that I am ambitious.”

“Splendid.” Melisande liked ambitious women, though they did not always seem to like her. “Though should I ever engage your services, Favrielle nó Eglantine, I will warn you I expect a certain amount of reverence.”

“From your couturier? Or from your lover?” Favrielle asked warily. Oh, this one’s wits were _flechette_ -sharp and her tongue as well. It would be sweet, sweet pleasure indeed to bend and twist the girl's willful nature until it broke. 

Melisande smiled and bent to place a sweet, chaste kiss on Favrielle’s forehead, rendering the proud adept at last speechless. “Both, I should think. I look forward to your debut with the greatest anticipation, Favrielle."   

 

_Valerian_

Melisande let lash upon lash fall across her favorite adept’s bare _marque_ , painting his back shades of raw pink and crimson red. Hippolyte nó Valerian screamed in agony with each passing blow, yet he did not call out his _signale._ Melisande had chosen him as much for his endurance as for his ill-luck name—the latter a perverse reminder of the adept whose services she had denied herself for nearly two years.

Melisande took her time administering Hippolyte’s punishment as her sweet, pale boy wept and moaned. Some patrons, burning hot with Kushiel’s fire, rushed through it, swinging the whip and cat wildly about until they had spent their desire. But Melisande was as patient in Valerian’s dungeons as she was in the game of thrones and houses. This was art—every lash a brushstroke, every cry of pain a couplet. To draw at last the _signale_ from an adept’s bleeding, bruised lips was but the final movement in private symphony. It was an art so very few would ever see or appreciate, but it was art all the same.

But tonight despite her most dedicated efforts, even Hippolyte’s pain failed to rouse her pleasure.  She grasped the boy’s sweat-streaked dark hair and for a moment imagined it was Phèdre nó Delaunay’s brown curls she held in her fist, Phèdre’s soft voice crying out for her mercy. But Hippolyte’s watery blue eyes held no scarlet mote, and no matter how gracefully he yielded, he was no _anguisette_. Melisande threw him to the floor in disgust.

“Please, my lady, have mercy. I beg you, no more,” he said, half-gasping.

“Hippolyte, you disappoint me. We have barely begun and already you wish to give the _signale_?Perhaps I should take my patronage elsewhere,” Melisande said coolly.

Hippolyte flung himself prostrate at her feet, weeping over the tips of her leather boots. “I would be lost without my mistress and her cruelties. Do not leave me. I will find the strength to endure, for your pleasure’s sake.”

Melisande stroked Hippolyte’s tear-stained cheek affectionately and favored him with a small smile. “Good.” She led him over to the sumptuous bed in the corner of the chamber. “Bend over and present yourself to me."

Hippolyte obediently did as he was told, even managed a certain grace to his movements though Melisande knew his back must be burning like the flames of hell itself. She opened up a small medicine chest and removed an enamel jar filled with salve. She dipped in a long finger and began to spread the thick cream over Hippolyte’s ravaged back, nearly sighing in pleasure herself to see him first recoil then ease into her touch. As she ministered to Hippolyte’s wounds, her mind wandered again to a certain adept with a half-finished briar rose _marque_. Phèdre’s blood called to her own, kindling Kushiel’s fire within her. Melisande itched with desire for the girl, as if she had been stricken with a fever for which Phèdre was the only cure. And she would not give Anafiel Delaunay the satisfaction of knowing how hot she burned for his _anguisette_ for all the precious jade in Ch’in.

Melisande returned the salve to the medicine chest. “Stay,” she told Hippolyte, and removed to the polished mahogany cabinet in the opposite corner. What would her pleasure be? The cane or the tawse? The crop or the cat? So many choices and all of them uninspired. A pity Hippolyte’s contract forbid the use of _flechettes_ , her favorite. With the most minute shrug of dejection, Melisande selected a wide wooden paddle and returned to Hippolyte’s side.

Melisande would not be so obvious as to ask dear Hippolyte to count the blows. She sent the paddle whistling through the air without any prelude at all, causing him to yelp in pain. Melisande let fly blow after blow in an unmoved, unsatisfied trance that felt less like art and more like rote exercise. Her body was in Valerian’s dungeons, but her heart and mind were following Phèdre through the moonlit streets of the City of Elua, wondering who would have the pleasure of her company this evening. Whoever they were, even if they were her own Shahrizai kin, Melisande doubted they could cause her to gasp her _signale_.

It was Hippolyte’s own _signale_ that brought Melisande out of her reverie. “Honeybee! _Honeybee_!” he screamed. Melisande dropped the paddle at once. Red welts lined his buttocks and she noticed her blows had drawn blood. Her pleasure was his pain, and she had wounded him deeper than either propriety or his contract would allow. Mercifully, she untied him. He slid off the bed, collapsing at her feet.

He lay there in crumpled heap, as she ran her fingers gently through his hair, murmuring soothing niceties she hardly meant. After a few moments, Melisande felt Hippolyte’s phallus, swollen with need, pressing against her ankle. Ah yes, this one had a thing for her boots. Melisande maneuvered herself into a sitting position upon the bed and began to stroke Hippolyte’s erection gently with the toe of her leather boot. Even through a haze of pain, Hippolyte still saught pleasure, rubbing himself against the soft leather eagerly, eyes averted. His hips thrust forward and she knew he was very close to finding his pleasure. In a rare moment of indulgence, she decided not to prolong his agony any longer. Flexing her foot, Melisande brought Hippolyte to a violent release with naught but the tip of her shoe.

Melisande gestured to Hippolyte’s spilled seed on her fine leather boots. “Clean up this mess,” she told him with a wave of her hand. Hippolyte obediently leapt to her command, and bent his head to run his tongue slavishly over the stained leather. He dutifully licked his way clear from her toe to her ankles, and even through the leather barrier, Melisande felt a twinge of pleasure. Hippolyte kissed and suckled very tops of her boots and their velvet laces, re-enacting a scene they had played many times before. But when he began to kiss her silk-covered knees, nudging her legs apart in anticipation of performing the _languissement,_ Melisande pushed him aside and let fall her skirts like a curtain signaling the close of an act. Though Hippolyte had brought her pleasure many times in the past, at the moment she found herself barely half-aroused. “Not tonight,” she sighed.

Hippolyte reclined on his haunches, eyes like wounded puppy. Melisande had long-suspected his affection for her went far beyond the professional, that the boy might actually love her. “But, my lady has not received her pleasure. Please let me…I want you…I _need_ to…”

The poor thing still thought they were playing at some kind of game. “But I do not want or need you, Hippolyte.”A stricken look passed into his eyes, and Melisande felt something that might almost have been guilt. Melisande was a woman given to cruelty, but she preferred to wield it carefully like a chirugeon’s scalpel and less like a crude cudgel. If she was frustrated, truly it was not poor Hippolyte’s fault. “I didn’t mean it that way. You take things too much to heart. Come here,” she patted the edge of the bed beside her. When Hippolyte hesitated to come at her command, she favored him with a sharp look, and that he obeyed.

Melisande pulled his head into her lap and he curled up next to her like a child. She stroked his damp curls, humming a Kusheline lullaby softly under her breath. When she was satisfied that Hippolyte had drifted off into a deep and exhausted sleep, she stealthily made her escape, leaving a sack of coins behind in Naamah’s hands and a bright sapphire ring on Hippolyte’s bedside table. The boy did not know it, but the latter was in fact a parting gift. Meliasnde felt a rare stab of pity. Hippolyte was only what Valerian House had made him, but his slavish devotion was no longer enough for her. She wanted more, so very much more. She always had. And neither fear of some half-remembered prophecy nor her own caution would keep it from her any longer. 

As she left Valerian's doorstep, Melisande felt the winter air kiss her cheek and she leaned into its embrace like a lover. Snow fell, sparkling like tiny diamonds in the torchlight. 

Somewhere out in the darkness, Phèdre was waiting. 


End file.
